


O' Lord, There Ain't No Heaven

by lovely_persona



Category: Supernatural
Genre: As well as Canon Divergent, Child Death, Crisis of Faith, F/F, F/M, M/M, Religious Castiel (Supernatural), Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, alternative universe - supernatural, canon adjacent, suicidal ideations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:03:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29925570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovely_persona/pseuds/lovely_persona
Summary: Are there sweeter sins than those from a holy man?+ Title is from a lyric of Champion's "No Heaven."+ The original of this was posted a few weeks ago, then removed by me. I needed it to be stronger, so here it is, back up and hopefully, more enjoyable than the first time around.+ Every chapter will have a content warning at the beginning if need be.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 3





	1. Prelude

On the outskirts of Lawrence, Kansas, there was a crossroad. It was nestled just before a major train track and just after a roadhouse that stood out like a sore thumb among the farmed fields. There was a rumour that at this crossroad, you could make a deal with the Devil. As with most deals, it could be anything you want, though the time to reap the deal’s rewards were sometimes short and at a cost of your soul’s eternity. 

At this road, a man was determined to test its existence. His little brother was at the brink of death. Lymphoma had riddled through his body, and time was growing short for him. After a childhood of neglect and abuse by their father, the man took it on himself to raise his brother. He did so successfully, even seeing him off to the luminary Stanford University in California. But in his little brother’s sophomore year, he had begun to lose weight inexplicably and had frequent high-grade fevers. It wasn’t long before the diagnosis:

 _Your brother_ will _die._

The man had buried a slim wooden box, its contents meager: a picture of himself taken by his car, the tightly packed blooms of yellow yarrow flowers, and a small rib bone of a black cat long since dead. Before its last clutch of dirt buried the box, he muttered an incantation. There was no hesitance in his voice, but there was no denying that there was fear coiled in it.

He didn’t have to wait long when a beautiful woman stood in front of him. Her long blond hair had loose curls at their ends, her eyes shimmered gold and white, and the white dress she wore was gossamer. The dress’s fine, almost transparent, fabric clung to the delicate curves of her shoulders, breasts, and hips. While the man was taken aback in her otherworldly beauty, he knew what she was there for.

She introduced herself as Lilith, and she had wanted to do the deal with the man herself. She reminded him of his sins: gambling, stealing, fucking, imbibing, coveting, maiming. . . Lilith wondered why he would do everything just short of murder. His sarcastic reply of being a God fearing man made her laugh.

The terms of the deal were quickly laid out: one life spared, one life lost. A caveat to the deal was that the man would be taken to Hell immediately. When he tried protesting to give him at least a month--even a _week_ \--Lilith clicked her tongue and shook her head.

"A sinner like you is in no position to negotiate," she crooned, voice laced with smoke.

Pinned into a corner, the man had no choice. The deal was sealed with a kiss, laced in a poison with no antidote. 

He was dead before he hit the soil.

)xxxxx[;;;;;;;;;>

Ten years later, in a small town tucked in-between the folds of South Carolina over 1,000 miles away from Lawrence, there was a desperate priest. 

He ran his fingernails between the beads on his rosary. The small black pellets were making indents on his hands as he gripped them tightly. He couldn’t bring himself to finish the prayer he had recited so many times.

Instead, he pulled up his clasped hands to his forehead and leaned into them until his elbows hit the red velvet-wrapped bar in front of him. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t anymore. That well had run dry earlier when he had to give the news to a mother she lost her child. Soon after, he had to administer last rites to a young man who was thriving a mere three months prior.

Death after death after death. . . It felt as if there was something sinister in their town. _Five_ deaths in _three_ days. 

“God’s will” was becoming a comp-out. It was an excuse that he could no longer speak without feeling as if he meant it. He no longer felt as if he was God’s elected; he felt more like God’s messenger of Death. It took awhile to realise that he was crying until he tasted the saltiness from between his cracking lips.

“Unfair, isn’t it?” a deep voice asked that was both underneath and around him. 

He looked around. The altar in front of him glimmered with candles. Their light barely made the chancel behind it visible, but he had a feeling that was where the voice was coming from.

He reciprocated the voice’s question with another one. “Who’s there?”

“Who you need,” the voice replied. It was low enough to where he thought it was just something he was imagining. He only slept for a few hours. This had to have been a hallucination.

The priest was determined to sound stronger than he felt. “And who do I need?”

There was a small chuckle, a noise laced in an unseen crackling fire. A pair of yellow embers gazed at him from the chancel’s darkness. The grip on the rosary tightened in the priest’s hands.

"You need _me_ , Father.” The voice took on critical, sharpened notes. 

“You are the Devil in a House of the Lord,” the priest returned.

“Not much of a ‘House of the Lord’ when its sole priest questions how much of their Lord is inside of it,” the voice hissed. Suddenly, it turned tranquil again, “But you are almost correct in the first part. I'm more. . . Samael _adjacent_. I stem from where his roots lay bare.”

The priest remained still. Some shadows wavered as they approached the candle light. All he could make out were shoulders, their edges wavering as if they were made of smoke. 

“So I ask _you_ again, Father. Unfair, isn’t it?”

The priest swallowed hard. His answer fell out before he could stop it. “Yes. Yes, it is unfair.”

The yellow-laced ember eyes then vanished, leaving whispering behind in a long-dead language before they, too, dissipated. The priest released the breath he didn’t know he was holding, and he wondered what he had done.

)xxxxx[;;;;;;;;;>

Outside of the menial town, chilly autumnal wind bit at his fingers as he extended his left hand. His right hand followed behind, grabbing at the dead, brown grass and dry soil to anchor himself before he pushed upward. The earth resisted him breaking through from underneath, but he was stronger than its opposition.

The first breath of fresh air stung his lungs. He didn’t need to depend on breathing for ages, but his weak human vessel demanded of him to do otherwise. The very act of breathing was a symbol of humanity’s continuing frailty.

Learning to walk was its second weakness. Bleeding was its third. He was experiencing these difficulties simultaneously. The pebbles and rough dirt grazed and slightly impaled the soles of his feet as he continued trying to walk in a straight line. He stumbled toward a brightness that appeared to be steadily approaching him on the lone back road. 

Cold air continued to bite at his naked body that was streaked in dirt and splotches of his own blood. His skin was hot and clammy. His eyes were rimmed with red, looking as feverish as he felt. 

“Priest” was all he managed to rasp out to a nonexistent listener. As the beacon became blinding, his weak form couldn’t stay up anymore, collapsing hard in front of the light. 

A pair of cold hands touched him. It was all he could feel until everything went dark.


	2. Nathaniel Rogers: The Exemplary Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Implied sexual assault

Everyone in town said that Nathaniel Rogers is an exemplary man.

His family was the third generation tending to their small tobacco farm, though his daughter Adina had told him that she had no wishes of bringing the tradition into a fourth generation. 

Initially, Nathaniel couldn’t be moved. He couldn’t understand why Adina didn’t want to follow what was clearly their family’s calling. It was only when his wife and Adina’s mother Abigail died that grief shook him into new perspectives. Six months after Abigail, Nathaniel accepted Adina’s plans for her future, signing on loans that would allow her to pursue her education in the city. 

It was October, and Nathaniel was excited for Adina to return for her autumn break the next month. He marked down the days faithfully on his calendar, always glimpsing over to November which had a large red circle over its 20th day before crossing out the day that had passed. His farmhands noticed that Nathaniel had more of a pep in his walk the closer that day approached. They could not have been happier for him.

On the morning of October 12th, however, the day was saliently different. Of all things, it appeared as if the sun didn’t fully set over the farm, tinging it in a deep red to amber. Yet the sun was out; it was not undergoing an eclipse. Shadows were sharp and more pronounced. The distinct smell of a bonfire permeated and stagnated the air. Stepping even a mile away from the Rogers homestead gave you blue skies, wind, birds, things that were noticeably absent once you drew closer to a small house surrounded by tobacco and a lone red barn. 

“Nathaniel, something funny is happening here.” He had heard a version of that sentence all day long. It got to the point where he dismissed all of them. As they were not working much that day anyway, Nathaniel figured as soon as the weird anomaly dissipated, things would go back to normal. It had been two months since they finished harvesting tobacco, so the hard work was long since done even if the aid decided not to return for the rest of the season. Nathaniel could manage his two cows and slew of chickens by himself anyway. He’d have Adina next month for company for a while until she was back for her winter’s break only a few weeks after that. It would make everything go easier.

Night had fallen, though looking through black ink would have been easier to look through. Nathaniel had taken out his truck to make sure the perimeters were still secured and that he didn’t miss a wayward animal. It was on his way back that he almost ran over a man covered in nothing but blood and mud as he was walking down the only road that ran beside his homestead.

At first, he thought the man was inebriated. His first thought was to chastise him for picking such a dangerous, irresponsible location to drink. It wasn’t until the man fell that Nathaniel felt suddenly responsible for his welfare. 

The man felt as if he had weighed a ton, even though he appeared to not be over 170 pounds. The sudden weight made him almost impossible to move, yet slowly and surely, he was able to lead the man back to the truck. He had wrapped the man in a grey wool blanket he kept in his truck’s passenger side before having him sit where it used to rest. Propping up the man against the window, he put a hand on the man’s arm so he wouldn’t fall over while the slightly bumpy trail led them back to his house.

At that point, the man had slightly recovered. He was able to help Nathaniel move him inside. His walking, however, was akin to a toddler’s in its uncertainty and unsteadiness. 

“Lemme clean ya off before I dress ya,” Nathaniel said, placing the man in his favourite chair in front of an electric heater. He filled a ceramic bowl of hot water, placing three hand towels to soak in it before throwing a large towel over his shoulder. Rolls of gauze and antiseptic were stuffed in his denims before he started to make his way back into the living room.

_ Nathaniel _ .

He stopped and looked around using only his head. Nothing could be seen. It was when he took another step forward that he heard whispering that sounded panicked.

_ Nathaniel. Leave the house. _

_ Nothin’ good is in that room. _

_ Leaveleaveleaveleavele _

The water in the bowl turned frigid as the temperature around him dipped dramatically. But as soon as the whispers came, they had left and the room’s warmth returned to where it was before. He took in a sharp breath and shook his head. As soon as he saw the man was tended to properly and sleeping, he would call it an early night too.

The man was sleeping like the dead. Even with cold water, he didn’t move or make a sound as the water glided up and down his arms, chest, and legs. Though the man had blood on him, there were no cuts. The only marking he had was a prominent black tattoo of a star encircled by corded flames that rested on the upper left of his breastbone. The tattoo was cut in half by a long, deep, pink scar that almost seemed to gleam in the low light. There was no other marking on him that looked as serious as that. It looked relatively fresh, yet it appeared to have scarred quickly.

Nathaniel shook his head. Whatever made it was between the man and God. He didn’t want to get in-between or judge. He focused on dressing the man in some of his old clothes instead. By the time he was done with it, he was exhausted by shifting around the leaden weight.

“Boy? Young fella? Hey?” 

The man’s eyes snapped open, green with gold halos in their centres. They were unnerving. Inhuman. Something he was warned about in the Bible was behind them. Nathaniel swallowed hard as he mustered courage to speak again.

“I am about to have supper. Do ya wanna join me?”

He started to walk toward the kitchen. He didn’t hear the man follow him, but he did notice everything begin to turn dark behind him as they moved forward. 

The humble meal of canned chicken noodle soup with a plain slice of buttermilk bread was one-sided. Nathaniel had no reservations about going back until he finished the stove pot the soup was heated in. The man’s meal, however, remained untouched. 

“Do ya have a name?” Nathaniel asked, trying to break the silence.

“Mine or the poor bastard’s I’m livin’ in?” the man rejoined. His voice sounded as if his mouth was bubbling out errant water. He tilted his head. His head went flush to his left shoulder with a sickening crunching sound. Neck bones were protuberant against the skin trying to keep them inside. The man groaned, low and feral, as he fought to raise his neck. The bones cracked and shifted back into place until his head sat upright again.

Nathaniel’s blood turned cold. He wanted to run, but his legs were suddenly made of the same type of lead that seemed to have weighed the man down. 

“I think his name was. . . Dean.” The man raised his left hand, palm upward, ascending Nathaniel’s body with it. Nathaniel started to choke, an immense pressure at the front of his throat as his feet dangled helplessly off of the floor. 

“Nathaniel Rogers, we have waited a long time for you,” the man resumed. Nathaniel’s flesh started to rip apart where he was gripped.

“Ashley Hollis even longer. Do you remember her? The girl you fucked behind your sweet, yet very stupid, Abigail’s back? The girl you killed when you found out she was carrying your bastard?”

Nathaniel’s bones started to snap and fold underneath the pressure that flooded throughout his body. The last thing Nathaniel heard was the man laughing. The last thing Nathaniel saw was his blood painting the room and the man.

Everyone in town said that Nathaniel Rogers was an exemplary man.


	3. Small Town, Smaller Talk

Ms. Brenda Robinson worked as a kindergarten teacher at the only primary school in Ovid. She was also an avid collector of ceramic dolls, specifically the ones made in the late 19th to early 20th Centuries. Their arrays of glass eyes watched the priest from the rows of shelving as he stayed at the home’s foyer. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to donate this month, Father,” he heard her sigh from the kitchen. She emerged back into the hallway carrying a small cardboard box. The metal of the aluminum cans inside of it rattled as it exchanged hands.

“Whatever you give is more than enough, Ms. Robinson,” he assured gently. Lines that creased on the sides of her eyes softened at that even though her lips remained pink and thin.

“Well, we’re here for you too, Father. This year seemed to have been the hardest year for all of us in Ovid, but in the past six months. . .” Her small and round chin slightly quivered. “So many young people have been dying, haven’t they? A lot of them were _children._ ”

The word “children” came out almost whispered, as if it were profane. He didn’t know how to respond. She was correct. Every death was deemed natural by the coroner’s report. So much so, the state came in with their own coroner to double-check his work. Their results matched, and they continued to match with every new body brought in. There were no accidental deaths. The victims were between the ages of six months old to 30. No one could understand it. Everyone was becoming furious that it seemed that there was no investigation being done, especially when the state coroner said that he was going to be leaving Ovid at the end of the month.

“Is it the water?” someone had asked at the town hall meeting.

“No. And if there was, the whole town would have been affected.”

The state investigators rejoined every question with a negative with the same caveat of the “whole town would be experiencing it.” They sounded like a broken record at the end of the forum, which ended abruptly under the threat of violence toward their persons. 

His faith never wavered under God through all the years he knew Him. Joining a theological college was both a no-brainer and no surprise to his parents when he turned eighteen. The day after his high school graduation, he had moved to the Sacred Heart Major Seminary up in Detroit, Michigan, gained experience and education before transferring to the desperate opening in Ovid. He thrived in doing what he loved to do until the deaths in Ovid started occurring almost immediately after he turned 25. 

Now, he didn’t know what to do. There was also some worry about him by his newly adopted congregation that something might happen because he fit in the affected age group. All he could respond with was that if God wished to take him, “His will be done.” It didn’t do much for assurance, even though it did convince him for a little while.

“What happened with Nathaniel Rogers though,” Ms. Robinson sighed heavily. They bowed their heads together, marking their bodies with the sign of the cross. All his farmhands found of Nathaniel Rogers was his blood splattered everywhere in the kitchen. There wasn’t a body, no note, no weapon left behind. Absolutely nothing. He wondered to himself because of such a violent occurrence that the state coroners and investigators would stay longer than their month time limit.

“All I heard was they found samples from someone who has been dead almost ten years now. How monstrous,” she sighed, tears welling out of her eyes.

His stomach twisted in a knot. He wanted to tell her that nothing was going to be done. The whole town would die, and that hand wringing was going to do nothing, just like the God they were praying to. Those thoughts alone terrified him, and they were coming with more and more frequency. 

Instead, he assured her after swallowing the sudden hot bile down. “We will figure everything out, Sister. I promise.” He could only take his leave before he did the same amount of damage to her faith as was happening to his.

)xxxxx[;;;;;;;;;>

If a stranger came through Ovid, even they would know something was deeply wrong with it. 

An obvious symptom of the young occupants being almost systematically wiped out was that the streets were deficient of life. Though Ovid never had a particularly large population to begin with, it would only take a few more incidents to make it into a ghost town. Many of the occupants were already moving away, thinking that the town itself was plagued, and if they left, they would be secure. Shops started to shutter by either the owners fleeing too or no patronage. 

Anna’s Patisserie and Cafe remained strong however. In fact, in the absence of other business, it had become an echelon in and of itself. The priest usually stopped in once a week to pick up their expired bread loaves, their rolls, and, every once in a while, their sweets. The shift supervisor, a young woman named Hannah Greene, greeted him warmly before she disappeared in the back to get what he was there for. 

He looked around the small lobby. It housed the very small late lunch/after lunch crowd. He recognised all of their faces with the exception of one person who was seated in the corner by the large window that was inscribed with the cafe’s full name in flourished font. In this stranger’s case, he couldn’t see their face at all with a heavy grey hoodie attached to a green jacket pulled over their lowered head. The man had no movement; he may have been resting. 

“Yeah, we don't know what that guy’s deal is.” The sudden sound of Hannah’s voice behind him made the priest jump out of his skin. Her lips drew back in a small, forced smile, “Oh. Sorry, Father. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Do you know his name?” 

“No. We’ve never seen him before. All he asked for was a cup of water, then sat down. He’s not bothering anyone, and it’s cold out, so we’re just. . . letting him sleep, I guess.”

They continued watching a little more until he eventually accepted the bread Hannah came out with. 

“See if he wouldn’t mind one. They’re free anyway. _And_ you’re a man of the cloth. You come with your own warning label.” Hannah parted ways with another smile, finding her mini joke funny. He smiled despite himself.

However poorly the joke landed, Hannah _was_ right: seeing a priest could be disarming. He approached the man. If the man was sleeping, he couldn’t tell as he couldn’t hear snoring or. . . even breathing. The thin and tattered green jacket and blue denims the man was wearing were covered in dark brown rivulets. The only thing clean about him appeared to be his brown leather work boots that had a slight beige heel to them. 

His first attempt to get the man’s attention was soft. “Excuse me? Sir?”

When the man still didn’t move, he tried a little louder. “Sir?”

It was that tone that roused the man. The man kept the upper half of his face hidden by the hood, but he noticed the man had a dark amber-coloured beard, almost the colour of aged whiskey, and very cracked, almost bleeding, lips. 

“May I join you, sir?” he requested, returning to a softer voice. He was told a lot by the new members of his flock that his natural voice was a little too gritty and strong for a priest, so he admitted to almost whispering whenever he initially met someone. This incident ( _no, it’s a meeting_ ) was no exception.

“Sure, _padre_ ,” the man permitted. His voice was alarmingly soothing in its deepness, edged with the sad lowness of an equally solemn song. 

“I’m Father Novak,” he introduced himself, setting the bag of bread on the table between them. He rifled through the bag, producing a few small morning buns before placing them close to the man. He didn’t want the man to feel obligated into taking them. Many desperate people still refused charity, believing that their dignity was the only resource they weren’t able to be wrested out of. It was difficult to understand that their worthiness would still be intact even after accepting help. 

Father Novak wondered if the same was occurring when the man was obviously studying the food. Then he reached out, the movement of his hand fast, grabbing the one nearest to him. He gripped the food tightly, the white sugar it was topped with almost seemed to glimmer under the somewhat dimmed light of the lobby. 

“Anna, the owner, makes those herself every morning. They’re divine.”

“‘Divine,’ _padre_? I thought in your line of work, that word would only be used for something holy,” the man repeated somewhat harshly.

“Sorry. I am very awkward,” he professed, trying to smile through it. 

Something about being so close to this stranger felt as if he had to come clean about everything. He wanted to lay himself bare, not only in spirit but in body. The man smelled of ash, of fire. . . 

What he would give to have just a small _taste_ . It would be the closest he came to tasting what a small _mercy_ would be like. 

“I’ve never known a holy man who _wasn’t_ awkward,” the man assured slowly, a smile slightly raising the corners of his shattered mouth. 

“Oh. Well, that actually makes me feel slightly better. Thank-you.” Another admittance, albeit small and innocuous. 

The man picked at the top part of the morning bun with his fingernails. It fell apart as he placed each crumbled piece to his mouth. Father Novak had to wonder if even eating had to have been painful in just moving his lips to accommodate the segments alone.

“I don’t have a name,” the man eventually said after chewing a chunk carefully. 

He was taken aback. “None?”

“That’s what I said, _padre._ ”

“Well. . . That’s unusual. I cannot speak for other cultures, but I am sure that is common somewhere. Some religions do not celebrate their birthdays, so, I mean, it’s not out-of-the-ordinary.”

“I do not know how to tell you this, Father, but religions are merely marks of cultures. They are not interchangeable.”

A deep flush ran up Father Novak’s neck as he made a soft noise partly made of defeat and fight. “Depends on where you come from, I suppose.”

“Sure,” the man simply acquiesced, sounding unconvinced.

They sat quietly until Hannah approached. She placed two mugs in front of them, coffee in the red one she handed to the man before setting down the darjeeling oolong tea Father Novak loved in his equally favourite mug. 

“On the house, boys. Enjoy,” she wished them before leaving them again. 

The man leaned forward and slightly over the mug. Like the morning buns, it was as if he was inspecting them thoroughly. The black liquid inside of it was obvious. Did he not even see coffee before? Father Novak watched him carefully as the man raised the cup, and after a short, hesitant sip, his tiny, cracked smile reappeared before he dived in for another swallow.

They enjoyed their drinks instead of talking. The morning buns were nonexistent after a while of the man stripping them carefully apart. Father Novak mentally likened it to perhaps peeling an orange. Although he couldn’t help but notice the peeling back was meticulous, as if he knew if he did it in a certain matter, the bread would _feel_ it somehow as it was being ripped apart before being consumed. 

It was fascinating. It was almost deadly to bear witness. 

Father Novak was about to ask the man how he had come to Ovid when the bell above the café door jingled. Two police officers stepped through, one with a hand over the grip of his gun. It was this one who ordered for Father Novak to step back from the man. 

Gregory Thomas, an older man who ran the market only a few doors down, helped Father Novak step further away as the whole café appeared to have taken the order to pull away, not wanting to get in their way.

“Hands above your head. Stand up and face the wall,” the second police officer ordered. The first police officer took his hand off of his gun, replacing its presence with a pair of handcuffs after the man did what he was instructed. 

It was when the officer slightly roughened the man by holding him down with an arm splayed between the man’s shoulder blades that Father Novak wanted to approach again to plead for at least some mercy on the soul. Gregory kept his hands on him, making him stew under the sudden grip.

The man’s hood fell off as he was brought roughly to face the entrance. He had slightly long sandy-coloured hair, curling away slightly at the tops of his ears and at the nape of his neck. It was under this shaggy hair that Father Novak saw a glint of gold from his eyes as they shared a look before he was ultimately led out and into an awaiting squad car.


	4. God Has Turned a Blind Eye Here

Ovid was founded much later than the other towns and cities it shared a state with. While a majority of them were discovered between the late-1600s to mid-1700s, Ovid came into the fold in 1893. This late founding was attributed to it not really being inhabited until well after the US Civil War. The decision to make it workable was out of an act of desperation as much of the surrounding area rested in char and ash after the Civil War. 

Rumours didn’t help its late welcome either. It ran the gambit of being the site of cryptids to ritualistic sacrifice and cannibalism to being a portal to Hell itself. The only concrete occurrence was people would end up _disappearing_ more often in it and in its surrounding areas compared to the rest of South Carolina. But skeptics regarded that as Ovid was in a very wooded area in its early years, and the lay of the land was confusing. Everyone who was missing must have been a weak explorer. Despite many explanations and eye rolling, there was still the belief that there was something sinister lying just underneath its roads. It was through the reliance of these very old beliefs in superstition that when children and young adults started dying, it was thought to be the work of the Devil once again. 

_God has turned a blind eye here_ was written in thick black script along the outside front entrance of the sheriff’s department. The bright white brick underneath the spray paint highlighted the dire warning. For a moment, Father Novak did not want to enter the building. 

Something was wrong throughout the town. It may have been growing for years.

Maybe God was never in Ovid to begin with. 

Because God was absent, it was the townspeople of Ovid responsible for turning a blind eye to the evil consuming it. Everyone was guilty of this unspoken offence. Everyone was going to face judgment and the wrath that came with the verdict regardless of who or what they were. No amount of good and heavenly works would save the tried, and blood would replace the tar of the roads.

Benny LaFitte, Ovid’s sole lawyer, was merely well-versed in the laws on Earth and not celestial. He was studying the fresh paperwork given to him by Sheriff Donna Hanscum on the department’s newest suspect. They noticed Father Novak’s approach together, though neither hid what they were discussing about what was printed on the pages as he got closer to them.

“You can keep tellin’ me everyone has a fingerprint all day, and I can keep tellin’ you that is not the case with him,” Hanscum retorted, handing over three more papers that he tucked underneath the growing stack. Her upper Minnesota-laden accent dipped long before it would go high, making her speak soothing to hear but something you had to pay attention to in order to get proper inflections. 

Benny was also a transplant to Ovid, but from around Bayou St. John, located by New Orleans, Louisiana. He prided himself on his Cajun background. But while his words no longer clipped at their endings the longer he stayed in the Carolinas, his low elocution and pauses between his words remained.

“Then I’ll keep sayin’ it because this is impossible,” Benny rejoined, flipping to the next page.

“I’m here for the man they brought in a little while ago,” Father Novak said after Hanscum sighed at Benny. 

“We’re just talkin’ about him, Father. He’s gettin’ his mugshots done now,” Hanscum answered.

“Mugshots? What has he done?” Father Novak asked. The man was new to town, and being a stranger, things unknown were always marked with suspicion and fear. Particularly _now_. As such, he hoped the man wasn’t implicated in the disappearance of Nathaniel Rogers. When Benny affirmed his worry that’s exactly what the man was brought in for, he sighed, the sound not hiding his frustration.

“It’s not as if we do not have reason this time, Father. He has on Rogers’s jacket he got while servin’ in Vietnam, and the DNA tests were positive for Rogers’s blood from the stains on the jacket,” Benny answered in his usual calm and low voice. 

The manila folder desperately tried holding all the printouts by itself as Benny placed it in a black accordion folder he used instead of a briefcase. He continued, seeing the priest’s quiet desperation written on his face. “Because there’s no body, he’s a suspect on a _disappearance_ , not a _murder_ . But, oddly enough, that’s the _least_ of his worries. All the tests our wonderful state authority has run on him have come back inconclusive. Nothin’ about him registers: no blood, no fingerprints, nothin’. Absolutely nothin’. So, not only do we have a man in town wearin’ a missin’ man’s clothes, the man himself has jack to offer on who he even is.”

“That’s impossible,” Father Novak almost whispered.

“That’s what I’ve been sayin’,” Hanscum agreed with a glare to Benny.

Benny shook his head as he was suddenly outmatched. “They can’t tie him to the DNA found at the scene though. That’s the only thing he has goin’ for him, especially since the stuff they _did_ find was of a long since dead man. They dug him back up early this mornin’ to be sure, like he is some sort of vampire, and wouldn’t you know it? Still dead as a door nail. His brother wasn’t happy about that, and I can’t say I blame him.”

After a silence passed between the three, Father Novak requested to see the man. Hanscum hesitated before requesting that he and Benny follow her, muttering that she could never deny a man of the cloth’s request just because of what and who he stood with and for.

The room they were led in had a two-way mirror. It was one of the recent additions to the sheriff’s department, its smell still distinctly fresh against the acrid scent of the rest of the station. They were left alone, watching two officers in the other room with the man. 

One officer with clear latex gloves on his hands moved the man who was only dressed in boxer shorts around so the other officer could take photographs of all of the scars and tattoos. While the man was so pale that his veins were visibly running blue and purple throughout him, his scars were even paler, ranging from short to long. 

The man’s longest scar made a large ‘V’ on his chest as it ran in a straight, careful line down the middle of his stomach. If the man wasn’t alive, Father Novak would swear on a stack of his Bibles that it looked like a vivisection from an autopsy. Another scar was cut over a black ink tattoo on his upper chest. While the vivisection-like scar split the tattoo’s star shape and its surrounding circle and flames in half, this particular scarring looked as if more effort was made to scratch it away until it would no longer be in the way.

For the most part, the other scars were cicatrix as they had time to knit together into mere bumps along the skin, which made the two prominent scars more visible. They also looked the freshest.

The man was instructed to put back on his faded red Henley and blue denims. Father Novak noticed the dark brown stains on his pants again, wondering if he really was looking at what remained of Nathaniel Rogers. 

“He’s unusual,” Benny said, breaking the priest out of his thoughts. “His eyes are the weirdest-lookin’ things I have ever seen my whole life. You _feel_ like there is absolutely _nothin’_ behind them, but you still want to find out if you’re _right_ about it.”

It was those strange eyes that glared through the two-way mirror: watching, _consuming_. They were predatory, something beyond a hunter. Yet they waited patiently.

The priest couldn’t even _begin_ to wonder what for.

)xxxxx[;;;;;;;;;>

Everyone remembered Nathaniel Rogers having an accident with his table saw. He was cutting too close, and his green jacket had caught on the fast spinning blade. While he was able to get away without losing his whole right forearm, the damage was done. He barely made that part of his body workable even through physical therapy. 

Something compelled Father Novak to craft this widespread knowledge into a lie. He had feared that the townspeople would retaliate against the stranger to the point of vigilante justice. Nathaniel Rogers was a pillar and well-liked by those who came across him. No one seemed to have remembered his past that was “marred” by an investigation of his own. The missing person was a young girl who worked as a helper on his farm. She was also a complete stranger, so when she suddenly disappeared one day, a report was made, but there wasn’t an investigation into it. The townspeople took Nathaniel Rogers’s word that she simply moved onto the next town after getting the funds she needed to do so.

That was it. Nothing more had come out of it. No one even bothered to see if the girl had kin and to contact them. Father Novak constantly thought about the girl he only saw once in a faded photo every time he would see Nathaniel at his twice-a-week services. It was in this nagging feeling that Father Novak felt at peace with the decision to lie.

Hanscum narrowed her eyes at Father Novak when he explained that he remembered the jacket being donated by Nathaniel a week before his disappearance. He said that he had mentioned the homeless had no donations of clothes for the fast coming winter.

“Being the man of God he was, Nathaniel gave a stack of clothes to me,” Father Novak lightly explained, continuing to make eye contact with the sheriff. “I noticed one of the items he gave was the green jacket, and he insisted that I take it because it was useless to him. I do not remember who exactly got it, but it was gone when we served food for the homeless at the church. I am assuming that maybe one of the volunteers that night gave it away.”

Hanscum shrugged. “Was the man there gettin’ food?”

Father Novak tried not to visibly stiffen as he replied, “We’ve been serving so many people recently that I cannot say.” Winding another truth, even half of one, would further fortify the lie.

“I want to believe ya, Father. I really do, but even if what you are sayin’ is true, that now makes him, at best, a missing person. We can’t find out who he is. He has to stay here with us until we find out who he is.”

“Couldn’t he stay with me at the church? I need help desperately.” He didn’t want to sound as if he was begging, but he was beyond the point of proving he wasn’t. “With what’s happening in Ovid, this. . . _situation_ that’s killing our young people. . . I think he can help and be taken care of while you find out who he is.”

She tapped her pen’s tip as she continued to look at him. Finally, she sighed, defeated. “Fine, Father. I release him into your custody. But if anythin’ happens to him, if I find out that you’re pullin’ wool over my eyes. . .”

“If anything occurs, I will take full responsibility for him,” Father Novak said, only acknowledging the first part of her threat.

)xxxxx[;;;;;;;;;>

In the summer, the early evening air was welcome as it gave a semblance of relief from the heat, though night merely made the heat set in instead. 

In the autumn, the early evening air had a frigid edge, slightly biting at the veins in one’s lungs if inhaled too quickly. 

Father Novak regarded this as the reason for him being so cold, and not the man with the strange eyes who followed so closely behind him.


	5. Laith

Three months had passed since the stranger came into town. In that short time, there were no new deaths or new disappearances. If anything, it seemed as if a breath of life came into it instead.

Though it was mid-January, flowers and grass continued to grow, untouched by frost and thriving underneath the packed snow. Illnesses, such as the flu, were also short-lived with such mild symptoms that individuals scarcely believed they were sick at all. Father Novak wondered if he was alone in thinking this new time  _ was  _ because of the stranger’s arrival. 

The stranger seemed to be acclimating well. He settled on a name the first night Father Novak brought him to live at the church. Five names were presented to him on a piece of paper. They were the names of archangels such as “Michael” and “Raphael.” The stranger looked at the priest somewhat coldly before he scratched out each name with his pen’s tip until the paper ripped the names away. He simply wrote back “Laith” on the paper in lettering that was in all capitals and serrated.

Laith, as it was soon found out, was a master of all trades. Whatever needed to be done, he did it efficiently. Eventually, this became well-known in such a small town, and he was contracted out several times to help out the denizens. He merely made requests for payment with “whatever they could offer back to the church.” When Father Novak had heard of Laith doing this, he was humbled and grateful. Donations became more plentiful, volunteer work was easier to get, and the church’s offering plates were flush with coin, cash, and cheques every Sunday and Wednesday after their respective services. 

Everyone seemed to have forgotten that Laith was a suspect in the Nathaniel Rogers disappearance, much less a possible missing person. It was as if he was always around from the beginning. 

However, Laith rarely talked to anyone. He made up for his lack of voice by constantly  _ studying _ with his inexplicable green and gold eyes. Nothing seemed to have gone past him, yet it was difficult to catch him in the act of monitoring you. The shadows seemed to be his familiars as they sharpened in their edges in his absence and billowed around him in his presence. 

“Are you going to eat your dinner,  _ padre _ ?” Laith questioned from his seat across the humble wooden table to Father Novak.

“Yes,” Father Novak managed. He noticed for all of Laith’s poking, Laith’s plate remained untouched. 

“You should also eat. I heard you were busy at the theatre, getting their lights on again,” Father Novak reminded in his usual gentle, yet gritty, voice. 

Laith replied, his voice unchanging from the first time it was heard. It sounded like the beginnings of the same solemn hymn. “Would it make you happy if I ate,  _ padre _ ?” 

Father Novak wasn’t really a fan of being called “padre.” He even gave permission to call him by his first Christian name of “Castiel.” The first time he spoke it to Laith, Laith tested it out, accentuating the “-tiel” until he eventually shortened to “Cas.” “Cas,” however, would go wayward a lot of the time, so “padre” would return instead.

Regardless of how he felt about the nickname issue, Father Novak nodded. “You need to eat, so yes, it would make me happy.” 

Father Novak was also not really a fan of Laith asking for his blessings on doing things. Laith doing  _ anything  _ seemed always contingent on whether or not it would make Father Novak happy. He already felt the weight of being a man of service himself, but it was a voluntary cross to bear. So the last thing he wanted was someone else being in service (certainly if the service was  _ to him _ ) if they didn’t need to be. 

Yet the priest couldn’t deny that whenever Laith would ask for consent, it struck a chord deep within him. He felt extremely tethered to Laith: warm to almost on fire when they were close like they were now, to being on a brink of hypothermia when they were away from one another. There was no way to tell if Laith felt the same, so he kept it knitted inside to not speak of it to anyone outside of him and God.

“Were you able to finish at the theatre?” Father Novak asked in an attempt to break the growing quiet.

“There will be a fire there if they are not careful” was all Laith said.

“Yes, I imagine there will be. Our electrician Abner Harris passed away in. . . that awful sickness that plagued us almost all of last year. You’re the only one we’ve had since to help them.”

“How many were you? How many did it kill?”

Father Novak was momentarily confused on what the “it” was until it suddenly registered. “We were a town of only five hundred. It took the babies and the children at first. Then the teenagers. Young adults were next. It never seemed to have moved past the age of 30. The last death from it was only a day or two before you came into town. I think it had to have taken 75 of us before it stopped.”

“Marie Williams said it was the work of the Devil,” Laith interjected. 

“Marie. . . says a lot of things. She is one of the most sensitive of our flock.”

“You mean ‘the craziest.’”

Laith smiled, white and sharp, at the scowl Father Novak shot at him. 

“She is a good per--” 

“I didn’t say she was bad, did I? Plenty of people that’re called ‘crazy’ are normally the good ones.” Laith rotated his neck then, a small  _ pop  _ and  _ crack  _ escaping from just underneath his skin. Sometimes, Father Novak noticed Laith’s neck would set at a peculiar angle, but it was nothing a small adjustment couldn’t fix. Still, however, there were many times he could have sworn it was broken as sometimes, it would sit flush against his shoulders until it was brought back upright.

“The problem is,” Laith continued, breaking Father Novak out of his staring, “No one listens to crazy people.” He lifted himself slightly out of the chair, locking eyes with the holy man as he lined his mouth close to the sole candle on the table. 

“But they should, shouldn’t they,  _ padre _ ?”

The candle was then blown out. 

)xxxxx[;;;;;;;;;>

__ _ Do you need me? _

__ New weight lilted the bed slightly to the right before it corrected itself when all of the mass was placed on the mattress. 

_ I thought I didn’t. _

Soft fingertips trailed up. They began at his calves until they rested on the divots of his hips. A slight pressure rolled him flat on his back. The weight continued to shift around as it crawled upward. He elicited a small moan of permission when a stronger and wetter heat surrounded him. 

_ And? _

Moans rotated with heaving breaths. His own fingers twisted in short hair, using the tendrils as an anchor.

_ And I do. . . I need you desperately.  _

It took all of him to manage to break away. He whined with the lost connection as the cold air surrounded him again, but when a sharp shadow hovered directly above him, he knew he didn’t have to direct much. His fingertips connected with pliant, yet malleable, skin, feeling the hip bones underneath it without difficulty. 

_ Oh, I need you too. . . _

Fingernails, once careful, now scratched at his stomach as the weight hit against him at a feverish pace and at an indescribable angle. Whispers in a language he did not know the origin of overwhelmed his hearing, though he did not feel compelled to shut them out. The whispers grew in their intensity as something very warm spilled over the thinned lacerations on the stomach that the fingertips left behind.

He felt himself be unspooled as he held on tightly to the hips. His final orgasm left him desperate for more. His eyes rolled in the back of his head as everything faded to black.

_ You can have all of me. . . _


	6. Warnings as Invitations

There was something to be told about finding a comfortable routine. 

No matter how bad (or even good) the day was, a routine was dependable, a constant. However, regimens are prone to disruption. 

“Disruption” is putting it rather harshly as the whole of Ovid was turned upside-down due to the sickness (“the plague” in small circles). When the deadly sickness appeared to be abetted, Father Novak slowly reintroduced himself to his custom of spending time in the church’s attic after dinner.

It was where he could shut out the world and the responsibilities the world gave him. It was a place of meditation, and something he could distinctly call “his.” Even though all he would mostly do was read the Bible and other holy books by candlelight, it was still something he looked forward to.

While the sickness may have been assuaged, Laith’s abrupt entrance into the priest’s life and readapted routine made things a little more difficult to accomplish. The ability to relax became increasingly difficult. Laith, to his credit, stayed away, non-verbally acknowledging the attic was the priest’s place of respite, though there were many times he wanted Laith’s company inside of it. The want for his companionship became more and more urgent as his dreams became centered around the man with green-and-gold eyes.

The dreams also grew increasingly erotic. 

There would be the persistent scent of brimstone and ash, an odour Laith still exuded. There would be a frightening blurriness to the man’s features with the exception of green and gold streaks where his eyes casted down at him while he was above. Whenever he would get close to Laith, his scent and eyes no longer served as a warning; they were more of an _invitation_. 

Laith wasn’t helpful in stemming the tide either as he knew he was being used as a creature of comfort. He would still ask if doing things would make the holy man happy, and when they were definitively alone, the question would come out in a voice that just released cigarette smoke. It took every defence the priest had to not request of Laith that the only way to make him truly happy was by knowing him through his salt and through his earth.

Whenever he was away on errands for the church, he would start to get exhausted and a little feverish. Even when the dreams were over and he was merely _near_ Laith’s proximity, the sickness ebbed until it left. Being apart from Laith was like being trapped in a coffin time and time again. 

Eventually, coffins run out of air.

That night, it was the cold that roused him. A single grey plume of smoke rose out of the extinguished candle that was on the side table. The candle had plenty of wax left. He wondered if someone had put it out. The sound of heavy work boots departing answered his question.

“I didn't mean to wake you,” Laith apologised. He must’ve known his act of kindness slightly backfired as he was waiting for Father Novak to merge from the stairwell. 

“It’s all right. I didn’t expect you back tonight. Did everything go well at the theatre?”

Laith was holding his own lit candle. The blackness cut around him in angles: the hollow underneath his cheeks and the hoods of his eyes were made prominent. A gold glimmer passed through his eyes like a current. Father Novak held in a breath before slowly releasing it. He was more tired than he expected.

“Yes. There should be no more threat of fire.”

Another feature about Laith that made him slightly _stranger_ than his eyes and his tone of voice was his manner of speaking. It came together in a manner that made him seem very old, but he could not have been older than 30. A member of the church said he spoke in a charming way that it reminded her of the old black-and-white movies she enjoyed as a child about debutantes and forbidden love affairs.

“Good” was all Father Novak could muster. 

A cold pause came between them until he felt responsible to be the one breaking it. “Did they give you any dinner?”

“They offered, but I am not hungry.” Another flicker in his eyes passed. 

He was never hungry, only eating when the priest would be watching, yet he didn’t appear to be losing weight. The only change was his complexion was getting slightly sallow again with prominent blue veins appearing out of the sides of his neck down to his bony clavicles. 

“Eat,” the priest softly requested. His chest tightened at the inevitable follow-up question, spoken in its usual smoulder.

“Would that make you happy, _padre_?”

)xxxxx[;;;;;;;;;>

Sheriff Hanscum had called early the next morning. It had been almost four months since the disappearance of Nathaniel Rogers and three months since the department formally put out a missing person’s bulletin on Laith. 

“I hope I am not disrupting your plans, but Sheriff Hanscum is coming by. She wants to speak to you,” Father Novak said over breakfast.

Though Laith didn’t eat much (or at all), he did have a weakness for coffee, and he was on his third cup when he received the news. 

“Speak or interrogate?” Laith questioned with a dry smile. 

Father Novak shrugged, smiling back. “A little of column A, a little of column B.”

At least that was part of the truth. Something that worked _for_ and _against_ the sheriff was that she didn’t have the. . . _aura_ of a person in authority of any degree. That was used frequently to her advantage when it came to questioning suspects. They would lull themselves into either a false sense of security of being friends or someone they could trick, but she was always ten paces ahead of them at the game they thought they started instead of her. 

Father Novak’s curiosity was getting the better of him as well. Laith admitted that he still remembered no name, no hometown, or even if he had siblings or if his parents were alive. It was also possible he was withholding information and trying to play everyone as a fool. The only thing he was willing to share (and whether it was factual or not) was that he remembered someone close to him dying. In his desperation, he made a deal, but he wasn’t clear (“couldn’t remember”) with who or with what. 

“Everything comes due, _padre_ ,” he had finished explaining.

“Do you remember how long ago that was?”

Laith narrowed his eyes at the priest before softening them toward him again. “What I just told you is the extent of my memory.”

“You should definitely share this with the sheriff,” Father Novak had encouraged.

Laith then walked away. It wasn’t brought up again, though the priest hoped that today would be the day he did, but to Hanscum this time.

The always punctual Hanscum arrived at 10 in the morning on the dot. Her warm presence was welcome as her constant smile greeted Father Novak at the entrance of the church. Laith trailed behind, practically on top of the priest’s long black cassock. He eventually stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Father Novak after a few seconds of hesitation. 

“How are you doin’, Laith?” she welcomed, even though _she_ was the one on _their_ property.

“As well as can be,” Laith replied simply. “What is this about?”

Hanscum was taken slightly aback by the abruptness, but she sighed before continuing. “Checkin’ in, mostly. How are you feelin’? Any memories rear their ugly heads up?”

“I am feeling as well as can be. And no. No memories.”

Father Novak bit the inside of his bottom lip. He had really hoped Laith would have shared what was discussed between them. If whoever hurt him to the point of him losing his memory over it, they would be likely to hurt him again if they were to find out he was still alive. 

“You’re not withholdin’ anything from me, are ya, son? We’re on the same side here,” Hanscum reminded evenly. 

Laith shook his head in the negative. Hanscum looked at Father Novak before she looked at Laith again. 

“I know it’s difficult. You were put through the ringer when you came here, but ya have to understand that you were wearing a missing man’s clothes and his blood. You also don’t know who ya are still.”

“I understand all of that, Sheriff. I understand completely that a couple of your cops were close to vigilante justice. If your priest didn’t step in for me, I probably would’ve showed up dead in my cell before the night was over.”

Laith’s words were chilling. The candor and matter took Hanscum and the priest back. Father Novak never heard him say anything like that in the four months they knew each other. Even though Laith laid it bare and straightforward, Father Novak couldn’t even begin to think that the very cops who attended his services faithfully would be capable of committing death and violence against a _stranger_. Then he suddenly remembered the missing girl in the Rogers case, and he bit the inside of his bottom lip again.

As if his mind was read, Laith looked toward the priest, almost daring him to speak on the matter, but the priest remained silent under his glare. 

“That is a very serious accusation, Laith,” Hanscum retaliated in a low, steady voice.

“An honest one. Too bad I can’t prove it. But I’m sure even if I had the proof, it would be gone as soon as it was handed over,” Laith challenged. 

“If you give me names, I will look into it,” she promised after a short silence.

“No. The problems will take care of themselves.”

“Are you making threats, Laith?”

Laith smiled wide. His mouth was still slightly cracked at their sides. “I would never do that. But if you’re not planning to arrest me. . .”

Father Novak wasn’t sure who blinked first. Even though Hanscum turned and left, the staring still wasn’t over. Now it merely slipped into more of who would crack first as Laith started a vendetta.

By the cold expression Father Novak noticed, Laith knew very well that was exactly what he was doing.


	7. They Were Warned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Child death

A young girl, no older than twelve, screamed. Her mother said she was screaming for someone to let her go. As all good mothers would do, she rushed to her daughter’s room to stop the intruder with nothing but a wooden bat left by her bedroom door. 

But she didn’t find any intruder. Instead, she found her child’s lifeless body. 

Down the road was another report of a dead body. His mother had found him dead in the bathtub. He was twenty-five.

The next night, Deputy Harris disappeared. The only thing left behind was a pool of blood streaming off of his chair.

The apparitions had returned to Ovid.


	8. . . . But I Did Not(?) Kill(?) the Deputy

It should not have surprised Father Novak that Laith was brought in for questioning about the disappearance of the Deputy, but somehow, he still was. Laith appeared to be unbothered, almost as if he expected it as well.

They must have thought the charges weren’t going to stick much anyway as they didn’t bother to handcuff him and allowed Father Novak to sit in the front passenger seat of the squad car. All Laith did in response was smile at the charges being read out to him.

“Unless there’s viable evidence, you have to let him go,” Benny said slowly like one would to a disobedient toddler. 

“He made threats against the department the other day, and suddenly Harris is gone,” Deputy Brand reminded him before taking a seat behind his desk.

“Laith was well within his rights to complain that he felt unsafe underneath the care of the department. That’s not ‘making threats,’ that’s called ‘not trusting you.’ Anyway, he has an alibi for where he was all of yesterday. Harris was last seen alive at the damn burger joint around 7. Laith was with Bobby at his salvage almost the whole night, and Bobby dropped him off at the church at midnight.”

Deputy Brand rolled his eyes.

“Boy, I know you didn’t just do that to me when I practically spelled it all out for ya,” Benny almost seethed through his teeth. 

“So he might be workin’ with someone else”--Benny released his held-in breath through his nose--“We still have to dot our ‘i’s, don’t we?”

Benny squinted at Brand. “You cannot be serious with that bullshit, son. What you _can_ help me with right now is telling me what room you put him in”

“Four A. Same as last time,” Brand answered without looking at him. Benny gestured to Father Novak to follow. Even though he wouldn’t be allowed in the room with them, it was apparent that the lawyer was not quite done with his ranting, and he needed someone to listen to him. Who better than a priest to do so? 

“You’d think they’d have bigger fish to fry than hold a grudge over this kid’s head when two _other_ kids are dead. And yea, the deputy is gone, maybe even dead too with the amount of blood that was found, and that’s sad shit, but they’re wastin’ resources here when it’s obvious Laith didn’t do it. They should be lookin’ for the real suspects.”

Benny was right: if alibis were a suit of armour, Laith would be covered head-to-toe. Father Novak rounded out the time after he was dropped off at the church, as they spent two hours talking with each other over another meal he had forced Laith to eat. They had heard the police and ambulance sirens, gathering with everyone else who watched as a small covered body was removed from the Deborah home. Father Novak had rushed forward to Mrs. Deborah’s side while Laith stayed back. He highly doubted that during their separation while he comforted the poor, grieving woman that he went out to hurt ( _kill?_ ) the deputy.

Father Novak looked in through the slit window on the door of the room when Benny separated from him to meet with Laith within it. He watched as a seemingly genuine smile crossed Laith’s face as he raised up a now-handcuffed hand to shake Benny’s extended one. Something about the brief interaction made the priest’s heart skip a beat. It was something maybe akin to jealousy, as Laith had never smiled like that toward _him_. 

He had felt the same before when he saw Laith with Anna at her café. Though he didn’t know what exactly transpired between them as he was doing repairs around her shop, he had spent a lot of time there. Before he fully left the back room, Anna had stopped him, leaning over and kissing him on his lips. There was no sense of surprise or urgency between them. If anything, they both looked as if they needed, _wanted_ more to happen. All Father Novak could do was look away.

He always had to look away. . .

)xxxxx[;;;;;;;;;>

As Benny predicted, they had to release Laith with a warning that the next threat would be immediately taken care of with a night in a holding cell. Benny and Laith shared a hug and a small remark of Benny calling Laith “brother” passed between them as they let each other go. Father Novak turned again as a new surge of bitterness filled his chest. 

He waited at the exit, hands in the deep pockets of his beige trench coat, the only colourful thing amongst his white tab collar, black cassock, and black long-sleeved button-up shirt. It wasn’t often he would wear other types of clothes; even on unbearably humid, hot days, it could be trusted that Father Novak would still be in his black, traditional wear. 

“Are you ready, Cas?” 

Father Novak blinked several times before nodding. Laith held open the exit door for him, following closely behind.

“You called me ‘Cas,’” Father Novak acknowledged without looking at him. His breath came out in a white fog in front of him. 

“I did,” Laith answered after a moment.

Snow crunched and shifted underneath their boots. It started hardening over the course of the cold day, creating brief divots and smoothness that were prime for tripping. The priest almost did just that near the edge of a sidewalk, but Laith grabbed him by his bicep before his back collided with the walk. 

Through the fabric of the thick overcoat, he felt very warm in the location of where Laith’s hands made contact with him. He noticed then that Laith wasn’t wearing a jacket or gloves. None of his skin was pockmarked by pink from the cold and slight wind. Father Novak wanted to make a comment, an obvious question of whether or not he was cold. But he bit it back, replacing it with a soft “thank-you” before they continued walking toward the church. 

“Does this mean I’m no longer ‘ _padre_ ’?” Father Novak questioned. He averted his eyes, continuing to look forward. 

“You’re still _‘padre_ ,’ don’t you worry about that. But yes, you _are_ ‘Cas.’ You are also my friend.”

“Your friend?”

“Of course you are. No one else was willing to help me. If anything, I had a target on my back. But you took me in. Clothed me, fed me, housed me.”

“It is what a follower of Christ would do.”

Laith took Father Novak’s hand, placing it in the inner crook of his elbow. Without more thought or concern on why such a gesture was given, Father Novak accepted it, feeling the warmth inside the marrow of his bones that Laith was exuding.

“It is what a _good human_ would do, Cas. You can say it was because of Jesus Christ all you want, but your Christ is a starting point. It is ultimately _your_ choice to stay on the path.”

Father Novak looked over.

“All I am saying is that you should give yourself some credit too,” Laith offered with a smile. The skin around his mouth was still dry and cracked in numerous places, none so harshly than at the side seams where the bottom and top lips came together. His smile was intimidating to look at. Something menacing rested just below it. The beating of Father Novak’s heart, however, was not a sound of terror, but something of comfort. The smell of ash suddenly became prominent, briefly overwhelming. He could only hear and see only one rise and fall of breath between them. Laith’s chest was as still as the day. 

Father Novak tightened his grip on Laith’s elbow as they kept on. In a hitched voice, a tone he prayed Laith didn’t hear, he urged them on as the church came into view. 


	9. Blessings & Conveniences

All of the deaths struck close to the priest in one form or another.

With the exception of a few, they were devoted followers of his congregation. He knew and remembered everything they talked with him about. Their family members became his own. Often, he would share meals with them at their tables, and they would often talk as if they grew up with one another.

Jameson King, the captain of the junior varsity Ovid High football team, was the latest victim of the sickness. His mother was mere remnants when Castiel arrived at their home the following morning. He had offered her a place to stay at the church so she wouldn’t be alone, but she refused, even though he rejoined that he would never be put out when it came to his extended family. 

Jameson couldn’t be buried. His body waited for spring when warmer weather made the soil more accommodating. He also did not wait for spring alone as the three more joined him within the cold brick of the storage. The third was 45-year-old Emory Andrews.

Now, after so long, the sickness was no longer “contained” within the age range the investigators thought it was in.

Two more deaths occurred before February ended. 

And Castiel, exhausted, defeated, and at the edge, often wished the next one would be him. 

He stopped frequently as he lined up small empty bottles on the altar. An equally small gold cross was sketched on them, their lines matching up perfectly and points sharp. When a hand started shaking, risking the stability of the vials already placed in the line, Laith interceded. Their fingers slightly came into contact with one another.

“Bless the water, Cas,” he gently ordered. Castiel nodded, numb.

Laith had finished the task before Castiel finished his mumbled prayer over a large silver basin of water. Its reflection of the priest did not look like him. There was something vacant sitting in-between his skin and skeleton that was prominent in several parts. 

The prayer to bless the waiting water finished with a light “amen” with Laith just as softly repeating the word. Castiel closed his black leather-bound Bible, its edges crinkled and spine broken in several areas. He had hoped his wavering words did not impact the grace spoken into the water.

“We can fill these up later. Let’s get something to eat, _padre_ ,” Laith offered just behind him. He led the priest by his right wrist as they descended the stairwell into the dark alcove. 

)xxxxx[;;;;;;;;;>

Laith seldom made anything in the kitchen, but as he started carving into a slightly bruised tomato, he mentioned that in something that felt close to a past life now, he took it upon himself to feed people. 

“You have another memory?” Castiel asked incredulously.

“Several have come back to me recently, yes,” he retorted, separating the tomato slices between two plates.

“Do you remember who you used to feed?”

Laith paused, looking at him through the tops of his eyes, before turning around to open the fridge. The wonderful smell of salt and fat on a frying pan was starting to make the priest’s mouth water, slightly distracting him from the question he just asked.

“A brother,” Laith eventually answered. He placed the lettuce, followed by some pickle chips, on the plates with more care than he did the tomatoes. “A younger brother.”

Castiel’s eyebrows knitted together. “Do you know if the brother is still alive?”

“No. I remember my dad though. When he wasn’t abusing us, he was out drinking and--sorry about this, _padre_ \--whoring around.” As he brought over the freshly-made cheeseburgers, he cracked a little sideways smile, “I was better off with no memory. The things coming to the front are not. . . _welcome_.”

“Do you remember anything else?”

Laith threw a large bag of chips between them before setting down ketchup and mustard. “Are you Dr. Freud or a priest for a podunk town in South Carolina?”

Castiel felt as if he could never quite get used to Laith’s barbs. They were methodical and sharp when they hit. He set his jaw briefly before allowing yet another potshot to merely roll off of his shoulders.

“Well, if another memory comes to you, I would be happy to hear it,” Castiel said after a few bites off of his burger. It was one of the best, if not _the_ best, burger he ever had in his life. His joy was written all over his face.

Laith didn’t respond to the priest’s request, but he did look pleased that the priest was enjoying his food. The holy man’s happiness in the simple act of feeding was enough to last for a little while.

Enough to, at the very least, curb the rising body count.

)xxxxx[;;;;;;;;;>

The suggestion for portable holy waters came from Ms. Robinson at the last service. All of the vials were filled and placed in a tiny oak chest with purple velvet that matched the purple banners hanging throughout the church. Castiel had plans to distribute them for the Sunday services, hoping that they made too much of them instead of too little. 

“Is there anything else you need before confession?” Laith inquired after he stowed the chest behind the podium where Castiel often stood to give his sermons.

Castiel had forgotten what day it was. Not getting a lot of rest can do that.

“You know, I am sure the town can understand if you skip,” Laith suddenly assured. 

“No. No, I have to. Someone might depend on my help today,” Castiel sighed. 

Before Laith left his side, he mentioned he would be headed to Bobby’s. He watched as Laith walked down the aisle and out the heavy wooden double doors, wondering if he had taken Laith’s suggestion, Laith would not have left. 

He missed him already.

)xxxxx[;;;;;;;;;>

Not many had come to confession after all. Between Agatha Morrison’s usual grievances about her too-noisy neighbours (while her neighbour said Agatha was being too _nosy_ ) and Benjamin Davis lamenting about his wife finding out about his latest affair, it was certainly scandalous but nothing really new. No one really talked about the sickness impacting them. 

Maybe they felt if they didn’t talk about it, it wasn’t happening. But many people were wearing face masks, afraid that it was transmitted in the air or by other people’s breathing. Nothing the state investigators mentioned gave way to those beliefs, but they also didn’t prevent the remaining townspeople from doing it either. The only thing they readily admitted a majority of the deaths had were the common factors of developing high grade fevers and trouble breathing, and those symptoms were from the ones who died the slowest. Those who died suddenly may have suffered the same, or went too quickly to know what was even happening to them before they were reaped by Death.

Beyond that, there was also nothing new from the state health department. They claimed to be just as puzzled as everyone else, even though it was headed into a full year of not knowing the origin of deaths. All that occurred was monitoring what and who went in and out, as well as taking temperatures of people who entered or returned to the ever-dwindling city. In that, perhaps they felt useful because they sure as shit were doing fuck-all else to mitigate what was happening.

There was a time Castiel rarely uttered anger laced with expletives. There was also a time where he was more trusting. 

But now, the fury and breach of trust were replaced by falling and doubting. 

After confessions, he tended to the people seated. A few asked him to join them in a prayer while others exchanged well wishes and sympathies with him. When there was no one else to check up on as he made his way to the very back, he sat on the last wooden pew, looking up at the dominant cross on the wall between the ambulatories. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there looking until a large hand hit his shoulder. Castiel suddenly felt rejuvenated again as Laith sidestepped his way into the pew with him before sitting down beside him. 

They sat shoulder-to-shoulder. It might have been a cause for concern over gossip, certainly as it concerned a man of the cloth, but Castiel had learnt through his usual stops around town that the remaining townspeople were used to seeing them together. Wherever Castiel was, Laith had to have been a mere few steps behind and vice versa. Even when Laith or Castiel were definitively by themselves, the missing part of the pair were still asked about, joining them verbally when they were not with each other physically. 

“How was Bobby’s?” Castiel wondered out loud. Sometimes, he wanted to _not_ ask about things. Sometimes, he wanted to merely sit in silence. But his nature _and_ calling prevented him from doing so.

“Everything went okay,” Laith replied. “We have a ‘pet project,’ Bobby calls it. We’re restoring a 1967 Impala that used to belong to the Maritza family. It’s almost finished.”

“The Maritza Impala that was totaled by a semi off of the 520?” 

Laith nodded.

Castiel remembered there being nothing left of it. He remembered as it was towed inside Ovid toward Bobby’s that the twisted metal made a vague shape of a vehicle. More red blood coated the inside and outside than black paint and beige leather.

“That sounds like quite the undertaking,” Castiel quietly marveled.

Laith nodded again before they slipped into stillness. The last visitor left with a good-bye to the priest and to Laith. They resumed sitting until parts of the church that were lit by only candles started to get dark. Laith pushed his way out from the pew to lock the double doors, effectively closing themselves off for the night.

He stopped beside Castiel, who looked up to him with a bit of expectancy and a lot of hesitation. 

“Are you done for the night, _padre_?” Laith asked. His fingers grazed Castiel’s back slightly as they gripped at the wood of the pew. It took all of him not to shudder and fall against them.

“I am, yes,” Castiel finally relegated. 

The same gold current passed in Laith’s eyes before he started to move toward the alcoves. Castiel swallowed hard, trying to compose himself, before he followed, more closely and more eagerly than he expected to.


	10. We Are Going Home, Priest

_They were running through a forest. Castiel’s heart was pumping hard in his chest. They had to have been at this a long time. His legs were starting to burn and tire._

_The man rushing in front of Castiel was matted with dirt and caked with dried blood. His waist length brown leather jacket billowed behind him. There were no signs of him slowing down. Castiel was becoming unable to keep up._

_“Where are we going?!” Castiel desperately asked the man. A sudden surge of strong wind clipped at his words as he yelled them out. He was covered in black mire and blood too, but other than his beige trenchcoat, nothing looked familiar on him._

_Suddenly, they stopped. Castiel could only hear his heavy breathing between them. The man didn’t answer the anxious question as turned his head to look at Castiel. What stared back at Castiel was a face laden with rot. An eye was missing, the skin around the socket long gone. His only working eye, verdant, glassy, and full of fury, glared at him. The side of his mouth was exposed, bony and missing several teeth. Castiel looked at the man in horror and in despair._

_The apparition smiled, black tar dripping slowly out of the holes. He grabbed Castiel’s right wrist, twisting it under long fingers. Castiel cried out under the sharp rush of pain._

_“We are going home, priest.”_

_Beneath him, the forest floor shattered and Castiel started going under. The man released his grip, towering over him as he watched the soil claim the priest who felt he had no right to scream for help._

“Cas! Wake up!”

Castiel gasped as he shot upward. The air he forced in was clean, but his mouth still tasted the dirt. Green eyes met his, and he slightly tried to pull away from the large, callused hands that gripped both sides at his neck just below his ears. He was unsuccessful at his attempts as the hands kept him steady and secure. It was only when his breathing started becoming more even that one of the hands released him, clapping it on his trembling shoulder a few times.

“There you are, _padre_ ,” the familiar smoky voice rumbled gently.

Castiel leaned into the touch of Laith’s hand that remained at his neck. 

It was just a nightmare. . . Just a nightmare. . . He was back at Ovid. He never left. He was with Laith. 

He never left him.


End file.
